


You're A Vision

by Ophelia_Raine



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Eurovision Song Contest, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Eurovision Song Contest, Based so very loosely on Eurovision 2018, Eurovision, Eventual Romance, F/M, Fluff and Humor, Fluff and Smut, Hidden Talents, M/M, May/December Relationship, Multi, Older Man/Younger Woman, Romance, Talent Shows
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-12
Updated: 2018-05-12
Packaged: 2019-05-05 20:48:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14626749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ophelia_Raine/pseuds/Ophelia_Raine
Summary: It's the grand final of the Great Westerosi Song Contest 2018! Join our hosts, Margaery Tyrell and Tyrion Lannister, as 14 contestants from across Westeros and beyond now battle it out for the coveted top spot — and all while finding smut and romance along the way. Hooray!(Yes. This is the Eurovision song contest fic that, like, two of you asked for.)(If you've never watched the competition and don't feel you understand it much—don't worry. Neither do I, frankly. Didn't stop me, though.)





	You're A Vision

**Author's Note:**

> This all started with Quoyan who asked me if I've ever watched Eurovision and then I completely misunderstood. So here you go.
> 
> The Baratheons and Lannisters aren't related here, unless explicitly stated so. Also bent the judging and voting rules around the place to suit my fancy. Most importantly, this is a fic that's clearly written to have a bit of fun and take the mickey. I have the utmost respect for actual participants in Eurovision 2018 and don't actually reference any real countries' efforts in here. 
> 
> Well. Maybe with the exception of Denmark. ;-)

_And we’re on in 4... 3… 2… 1… (silence)_

“Good evening and welcome to the Great Westerosi Song Contest 2018!” (Wait for ecstatic cheering to die down.)  

“I’m Margaery Tyrell—" 

“—and I’m Tyrion Lannister—” 

(Together) “And we are your hosts for the Grand Final, live in King’s Landiiiiiiiing!” 

(Play Westerosi Song Contest Official theme song.)  

“Oh gods Tyrion, it’s _so good_ to be back! And to join our 200 million viewers at home as well as our die-hard fans here at King’s Wharf Theatre where it’s just _packed_ with supporters from across the Westerosi Continent and beyond!” (Breathe.) 

“That’s right Margaery, just fourteen contestants left and only thirteen losers tonight. Although tell me,” Tyrion raises his eyebrows, going off-script already, “how is it that the Wildlings and Dothraki are part of this competition? I mean, aren’t the Wildlings super-North, and the Dothraki kinda too-East for a Westerosi Song Contest?” 

“Well…” Margaery smiles brightly even as she tries to kick Tyrion’s shin under the camera line. She misses of course, even with her killer pointed-toe heels. Being a dwarf has its particular perks, as he well knows. Tyrion swings his legs and grins.  

“Well…” she remembers, after stalling a full awkward second on international TV. “I believe this all goes back to the 70th Great Westerosi Song Contest when we invited the Wildlings and Dothraki to participate as part of our theme for the year: 'Building bridges, touching hearts through song.' And I guess they… sorta… hung around after that?” 

“They sure did!” Megawatt smile from Tyrion. “And we’re glad they’ve made the finals tonight!” 

“As have the Stormlands, Dragonstone…” 

“Brothers, I believe! The very first we’ve had in this contest who hail from two different regions! It’s going to be a very interesting Solstice this year if one of them were to win…” 

Margaery moves down the list breezily. 

“Dreadfort… Tarth… Bear Island… and even—oh gods, this is far!— _Meereen!_ ” 

“Oh yes! And Castle Black from the North.” 

“And not forgetting the growing internet-sensation from Winterfell.” 

At that, Tyrion’s eyes visibly soften. He’ll always have a soft spot for Sansa Stark, he thinks. A little bit of a crush. He and everyone else, he reckons. _Gods, those legs..._

“And of course, we have the Big Three,” Margaery goes on to say now. She’s good. She sticks to the script. Bloody memorises it and all. Doesn’t even have to look at the teleprompter. Tyrion rues the moment he decided to have a drink or ten earlier today. Can’t bloody read anything now, can he. 

He’ll just have to act as Margaery’s foil, then. 

“And what is the Big Three, Margaery? Why do we have them?” 

“The Big Three are our biggest sponsors for the Contest, Tyrion! And they automatically qualify for the finals each year. For those of you joining us at the Great Contest for the first time, the Big Three are King’s Landing, Dorne, and Lannisport. And I can’t _wait_ to see what they have in store for us!” 

“That’s right, Margaery. _None_ of us has seen what any of our contestants have prepared for our judges and viewers tonight. It’s going to be a _hoot!_ ” Tyrion wisely resists the temptation to actually hoot. 

Margaery turns to Camera Three, tossing her hair behind her shoulders as she does.  

“We're going to commercial now but when we return, we can’t _wait_ to hear from some of our contestants backstage before we kick off the contest proper!” 

“So nick off now,” Tyrion grins into Camera Two. “Get your Dornish beer while you can. Then sit back with your mates and prepare to enjoy yourself as we embark on the Grand Final of—“ 

(Together) “The Great Westerosi Song Contest 2018!” 

_Aaaaaand cut to commercial._

* * *

“Four fucking years of drama school, two hundred-episode TV series, one Lemmy for Best Supporting Actress in a miniseries, and I’m now reduced to _this._ ” Margaery yanks her ill-fitting earpiece and waves over a wide-eyed runner by the name of Pod. “Could you please be a darling and see if you can’t get me a smaller one of these? I can’t hear Varys.”

“Just do what I do, darlin’, and don’t wear one,” shrugs Tyrion. Margaery rolls her eyes. 

“How many have you had?” 

“Drinks? Or groupies?” 

“How many fingers am I holding up, Tyrion?” 

“Too many and not enough,” he replies blithely and jumps off his chair. It’s cranked up high so at least he can look as tall, waist up, as Margaery Tyrell. She’s a bombshell. While he looks like he got hit by one. The Westerosi Song Contest likes a good freak show and Tyrion is usually happy to contribute. Drinking money has to come from somewhere after all. 

“Could you bring back a pack of smokes pleeeeaasse…?” Margaery pleads.  

* * *

It’s crazy backstage. Just pure madness. There’s a roaming TV crew from each region just accosting as many contestants as they can physically get their hands on. It’s a conveyor belt of banal questions while the stage gets prepped. Every now and then, some contestant somewhere gets asked to sing some regional song for the viewers at home. 

It’s chaos. And Petyr likes chaos. 

It’s just too easy to slip into Sansa’s room. He closes the door behind him and slips the lock across. 

“I know that look,” Sansa smiles slowly.  

He crosses the room to her. “You look like a million gold dragons.” And she blushes becomingly. 

He leans in and she starts to complain. “They just painted my lipstick on. It’ll get messy.” 

“And we wouldn’t want that, would we Sweetling?”  

There’s a knock on the door. “Interview with WIN in five!” 

“Make it ten,” he growls at the door. “We’re having an urgent meeting!" 

“Only ten?” She arches an eyebrow. 

He waggles his in return and she giggles as he pushes aside the front flap of her gown and sinks slowly to the floor with a reverent groan. 

* * *

They say in show business that it isn’t what you do, but who you know.

In the case of Cersei, it’s a little bit of both. It’s who she did. 

King’s Landing traditionally tends to take the piss out of the Westerosi Song Contest since they’re always a shoo-in for the final. But Tyrion is inclined to think that they’ve really scraped the bottom of the barrel this year. 

Joffrey is a reedy little blowhard with all the talent and appeal of a wet lettuce leaf. And he’s been trying to sing for King’s Landing for ages. He looks pretty enough, Tyrion supposes, in that moneyed, entitled, inbred way. But the only real talent he possesses is the ability to get his mother to still wipe his bottom. 

And Cersei continues to do so because she honestly still believes that rainbows shine out of her firstborn’s arse.   

Robert Baratheon resisted for ages, of course. As the Executive Producer of the Contest, he really cannot be seen to be playing favourites. But then Cersei dropped by his office one day with a megaton of advertising dollars and a helluva blowjob. That mouth. 

Business is business. 

“And what will you be singing today?” Tyrion asks and tries to look vaguely interested. 

“It’s a song I wrote myself. About being lonely at the top,” Joffrey huffs and puffs, and Margaery flirts immediately. 

“My my,” she smiles. “That sounds _very_ impressive!" 

“It is!” Joffrey beams. “Some of it even rhymes.” 

“Well good luck,” Margaery smiles warmly. “It must be _so_ exciting to be the lead act of the evening!” 

And Joffrey bends down and leers loud enough so that even Tyrion hears him, let alone the boom mic hovering precariously close. 

“I’ll get my mother to nick off tonight after this song and dance is over. Ever fucked a lead act?”  

And Margaery, ever the professional, continues to beam as Varys screams in her ear before slamming the dump button from his studio.  

When the cameras turn away and Cersei sprints off to demand the attention of another TV crew, Tyrion jumps and wallops the back of Joffrey’s stupid head.  

* * *

As Wildlings go, Tormund Giantsbane is about typical, Tyrion supposes. But up close, Margaery thinks he’s a complete and utter hunk of burnin’ love.

They’re one of the few ensemble pieces, the Wildlings. Just seven of them with their big bushy beards and long hair looking all wild-eyed and untamed and all too capable of grabbing you by the waist and tossing you over the shoulder easily as they stride back to some man cave and make vigorous wildling love.  

And yet when she coaxes them to give a tiny demonstration (of the singing, the singing!), the tenor they produce is jaw-dropping good. All that harmony and gorgeous resonance. And gusto. And soulful intensity. And after that, Margaery is this close to swooning and begging for a very private, very naked demonstration. 

Pity their frontman is so distracted.  

Tormund has been staring at the rather androgynous-looking Tarth contestant for a full ten minutes. The interview is rubbish and Margaery is disappointed. The Tarth contestant, meanwhile, has turned a blotchy, wholly unflattering red. She clashes completely with that salmon-coloured suit she’s wearing. _Such_ an unfortunate choice. Poor darling.   

* * *

Davos Seaworth is an older man, but a rather dishy older man. Great personality. By the time their five minutes with them are up, Davos has touched on his family history, politics, botany, world travel by sailboat, and how he believes older man do it better. (Singing. Singing!) 

His stage partner, on the other hand, would have done better as a cardboard cut-out of himself. At least then they could ensure his face isn’t a visage of long-suffering pain for all the world to see.  

Stannis looks like he just swallowed a cockroach right before their interview and is trying desperately not to throw up. He’s a tall man, a broad man, and Tyrion looks like a midget’s midget beside him. Not a bad looker either. He’s certainly got the whole scowling school headmaster vibe about him that has tonnes of sexy potential. Margaery spends two minutes determinedly charming to disarm him but the more she tries, the more constipated he becomes and the fiercer he looks until she gives up all hope and focuses solely on Davos instead. 

_He’s got a personality of a turnip,_ Margaery thinks to herself until they’re just about to leave and she spies Davos leaning up to whisper into his ear, a tell-tale hand resting lightly on Stannis's impressive left pectoral muscle. Stannis turns and looks at Davos square in his face. The sternness falls away instantly, replaced by something infinitely softer. It's enough to make Margaery suddenly turn away, as if she’d just walked into their bedroom. 

_Awwwww,_ she relents now. _Not everyone’s comfortable in front of a camera. And even stern, dull men deserve love._

* * *

_Oh gods. That was awful. Just awful._

Varys had begged and begged and _begged_ Robert not to let King’s Landing start off the evening. “They can’t be the opening act! We’ll lose half the TV audience in the first stanza alone! JOFFREY'S SHITE.” 

But Robert wouldn’t listen.  

“King’s Landing has always started off the Contest! They’re our biggest sponsor! You’ll be fiiiiiiine…” And he had clapped a huge furry paw on Varys’s shoulder so his show director whimpered.  

“Then they’ll have to cough up more money to make up for the shortfall of viewers we'll lose!” Varys had clutched his hands, having run out of hair to pull. “You watch. They'll just drop like horseflies and switch over to re-runs of The Bold and Braavosi!” 

But Robert Baratheon is the Executive Producer and in the end, Varys had to pop a valium.  

Home viewers had scored Joffrey a whopping seven percent. Seven! They haven’t had a single-digit rating since that Dornish child star twirled too fast and vomited his beer. Even then, the kid had scored a nine and then went on become an internet sensation with his own MyTube channel. 

Thank gods for the rent-a-crowd cheering like the dickens. Cersei can be quite the forward-thinker at times. 

* * *

The Two Tenors score a little better, but not _terribly_ well. The only thing, Margaery thinks, that Stannis and Davos have going for them is just how very seriously Stannis takes the whole thing. He’s got a nice enough voice. A rich, sonorous _vibrato_  that soars over the crowd masterfully as he looks so very earnestly into Davos’s twinkly eyes. It’s all very intense and very dramatic and goes over everyone else’s head because it’s all in High Valyrian and there are no pyrotechnics in the background. 

“What the hell is he wearing…” Tyrion squints. “Is that a cape!” 

“Leave him alone,” Margaery tittles mildly. “I like him.” 

_So_ unfortunate that Programming had decided to place Renly, Stannis's brother from the Stormlands, right after them. Renly is the poster child for everlasting youth, with his Boy Band looks and the heart-melting grin and the hip-thrusting that belies his age. He knows _exactly_ which camera to flirt with at any given time, and the 12 to 37-year-old females are lapping it up big time.  

“Oooohhh…” Tyrion winces. “That was a ball-squeezing note.” They’re up to the climax soon and Renly is ramping up. 

“I’m betting there’s a _falsetto_!” Tyrion's now guessing with some interest. "Come on now, loose a testicle. Drop a ball… drop a ball… drop. a. ball. And there you go.” 

The entire room falls silent as Renly reaches up and touches that impossibly high, hauntingly pure note and holds it for two seconds too long. And then the theatre goes absolutely ballistic. 

Loras Tyrell, Margaery’s brother, is _completely_ beside himself now. He runs on stage right after and screams and screams.  

* * *

They’re back to running commercials and while the Show is reworking the front stage, Margaery and Tyrion slip behind and rejoin the whirlwind of filler interviews. 

Daenerys ‘Dany’ Targaryen is calmly walking about the place with her three dragons. “They’re Komodos,” she croons sweetly. “Aren’t they _adorable?_ They’re my babies.” 

“Will they be joining you on stage?” asks Tyrion politely from a safe distance. Drogon is the biggest and fattest, and Margaery gingerly steps out of snapping distance. Each fucker, she's just learnt, is heavier than she will ever be. Margaery swears that lizard is eyeing her beadily. She thinks about cold reptilian skin and tries not to cringe violently on camera.  

“Don’t mind Drogon,” Dany laughs. “He’s grumpy because he’s just been devenomised.” 

_Well whoop-dee-doo, you weird-ass lizard lady._

Dany is distracted anyway. _He’s back_ , she notices now, and stares at the guy with the full brooding lips and that glorious mop of dark curly hair. He looks almost out of place and yet completely at home. All ‘90s grunge with those retro corduroy pants that wrap around an arse she could really take a healthy bite of. _That ass!_ Dany lusts. You could park a pint on those gloriously perky buttocks and lick off the drips that spill over…  

She stares at him as he stares at Sansa Stark, internet darling and by far the most popular contestant on this show by a Westerosi mile. He’s looking with puppy-dog eyes at the gorgeous redhead who seems rather engrossed by what her creepy manager with the goatee has to whisper conspiringly into her ear. They _all_ notice her, Dany realises. Even the boys who bat for the other team. Dany hadn’t minded at all previously. That is, until now as she watches Broody Grunge Boy pining after Miss Perfect Redhead over there in Dressing Room Five. 

“Who’s that?” she finally gives up and asks Margaery. The camera surreptitiously pans across to where the object of Dany’s affections is standing, leaning back against a wall, fishing out first a cigarette and then a lighter. _Smoking will ruin your throat,_ Dany wants to scream. _That’s craziness!_ And yet somehow the moody bad-boyness of it all makes her loins throb a soft and steady _boom-tee-tee-boom_... 

“That’s Jon Snow,” Margaery supplies, missing nothing. “He’s representing Castle Black. I think he’s actually related to Sansa Stark.”  

_Jon Snow._  Dany tattoos the name on her heart and he looks up right now and notices all of them staring at him. It’s awkward. A makeshift spotlight from the corner of the room catches his hair just right and her breath catches in her own throat. Hot damn, but he’s _gorgeous!_

_And oh fuck. He’s looking straight at her._

Jon Snow is staring wide-eyed at her lizard babies and he pushes himself off the wall. He’s actually ambling over. His smile is devastating. 

* * *

Petyr Baelish watches every man watching Sansa. _His_ Sansa.

Sansa resists the urge to nibble on her fingernails, a bad habit she picks up now and then that manages to look adorable. _Everything_ she does is magic. Everything just turns him on.

He knows she’s nervous that she won’t win. It’s a lot of pressure for his sweetling. Winterfell hasn’t won ever since her mother entered the Westerosi Song Contest twenty-three years ago.  

Petyr remembers Catelyn Stark. She had been luminous on stage, and just like her daughter now, every man coveted her—including him. But she’s got nothing on the daughter. Sansa is, quite simply, sensational. 

But the Contest, Petyr knows, is a hotbed of political intrigue. Truth is, talent has little to do with any of it. The Seven Kingdoms have always voted on political fault lines. Northerners will always vote for Northerners and Southerners, the South—most of the time. And minor regions and peoples like the Dothrakis haven’t a snowball’s chance in seven hells. It’s why they zone the voters in an attempt to thwart the tribalism that’s rampant in the Contest.  

Petyr knows that Sansa’s only too aware of this. And he longs to smooth the furrow in the middle of her perfectly plucked brows.  

He’s built some insurance, of course. A voting exchange website, where voters from different zones can swap votes on an honour system so in essence each voter gets to nominate their own region and contestant. It’s naughty, but not strictly illegal. 

The illegal bit is how his website generates fake accounts to extricate real votes. 

With a sigh, Petyr forces himself to leave Sansa’s side. Part of her charm is that every single man and some women want to jump her bones. The more available she appears, the more sellable her public image. _She’s the competition’s bike,_ Petyr muses to himself. There are far worse things to be. 

Still. He can’t resist. He can’t resist her. 

Petyr leans in and brushes his nose across the shell of her ear. His brogue is soft and lilting as he whispers every filthy intention he’s been privately storing up for them until after she’s done on stage and he can lick every square inch of her until she begs. _Begs._   

She turns a gorgeous shade of bright red as he saunters off, cock hard, smirk firmly in place. 

* * *

Sandor Clegane is a grumpy son of a bitch and Tyrion decides he likes him immensely. It’s quite admirable, really, to look like a mauled dog and still want to be in show business. Tyrion feels a little like he’s found a kindred spirit.

Even if Sandor seems only to speak in grunts and profanity, 

“No fucking interviews,” he glowers before stalking off but then he baulks when he sees Sansa at the end of the corridor, looking utterly fetching in a long Japanese-style dressing gown wrapped over her performance garb. She’s standing all alone for once.  

Emotions war across Sandor’s leathery scarred face, and then he grunts and sighs, shoulders slumped. He turns back to face the cameras and glares at Tyrion and Margaery as if this is somehow all their fault.  

“Whaddaya want,” he barks. 

“What will you be performing tonight,” Margaery asks sweetly, not missing a beat. Tyrion’s got to hand it to the lady. Margaery is a tenacious little thing and scarily good at her job. 

Sandor grunts. “Singing a rock ballad,” he finally admits. 

“Not just any kind of rock ballad,” Margaery nudges slyly. “I hear it’s a teen tragedy ballad. Done in the style of '60s Morbid Rock!” She beams, growing excited. “We haven’t had any of those sung in this Contest for _years!_ " 

_Probably a good reason for that,_ Tyrion surmises privately but manages to school his face before Sandor thinks to punch it in. 

“You wrote this song, didn’t you. Can you tell our viewers at home what the title of your song is?” Margaery coos. 

Sandor spits on the ground and then looks in the camera. “‘Scalled _‘Last kiss before I lose my face.’_ Now fuck off, all of yous. I’ve got to go and do warm ups.” 

* * *

Jon Snow is patting Drogon and Drogon is _actually liking it_. Rhaegar and Viserion are nipping playfully at his hand and _he doesn’t even blink._

Are there no limits to this man’s perfection? 

His rock-hard ass is even more fabulous up close. Dany resists the urge to run her hands down his back and grab two handfuls and just _squeeeeeeeze_.  

She shoves her hands deep into her pockets and stifles a groan. 

* * *

Gods. Oberyn Martell really is sex on legs.

It’s almost like he’s a caricature of himself. His Dornish accent is ridiculously, seductively heavy and his eyes are set between Scorching and Smoulder. It’s said he never buttons his shirts, even in winter. His abs are perfect cobblestones, except tanned golden with a deep vee of hair that leads nowhere good _fast._

He’s almost too much, Margaery thinks. Mind you, that’s not an actual complaint… 

Renly and Loras are hanging around them now, eavesdropping hungrily. Loras squeaks when Oberyn suddenly turns and gives him a wink and a lascivious pucker of his lips. Then he’s back to eye-fucking the camera as he murmurs about how singing makes a man better in the sack. Something about tongue-placement, throats, and _vibratos_. 

Renly squeezes his juice box so hard that it squirts everywhere. 

They’re back on stage now, and Oberyn is the next act. Dorne is the other of the Big Three that gets automatic placement in the Finals but at least they fucking deserve it this time. It’s hard to look away, really. For a good long minute, Margaery and Tyrion forget to commentate, so gobsmacked by the raw sensuality on stage. 

The Sand Sisters writhing and snaking around him are actually his daughters, Tyrion eventually points out, a little slack-jawed and a lot envious. It’s all so wrong and absolutely so right. It’s sheer magnetism and animalistic and energetic and every woman in the great theatre starts crossing their legs and clenching discreetly. Oberyn's pants are so indecently tight that it leaves nothing— _nothing_ to the imagination. Oberyn Martell is obviously going commando down there. And is rather well hung. And gods, doesn’t he know it too. 

Tyrion holds the fort and the bulk of the commentary. Because Margaery Tyrell has lost all use of her pretty, clever tongue. 

* * *

 Eventually, Margaery finds her tongue when the Dothraki come on stage.

“Where’s the drums?” Margaery asks from the side of her mouth. 

“What drums?” Tyrion replies, genuinely puzzled by the question. 

“They’re Dothraki. Their synchronised War Cries are just _gorgeous_ —provided, you know, that they're performed for cultural reasons and not actually directed at us because then they’re just terrifying. They’re famous for it. Whenever they play away matches, they always start off with their War Cry. It’s magic!” Margaery stares at her co-host. “How is it that I know this and you don’t!” 

“Oh!” is all Tyrion can say before the horde of them appear on stage. Eyes lined and bulging, long hair tied back. Broad, bronzed, muscled, heavily tattooed, and intimidating as heck. 

They troop on stage and form a huge horseshoe facing the audience. There’s dead silence in the great room as one of them hums a note. Before Tyrion can clarify what hell type of music they’re doing tonight, the Dothraki _Douzetour_ starts to break into a Barbershop… twelvetet? 

“Oh my gods!” Margaery’s covers her mouth in delight. “That is just _adorable!_ ” she squeals. 

“That is… unexpected,” Tyrion murmurs.  

The viewers at home are equally confused and the Dothraki score an exact fifty percent.  

“Oooohhh…” Tyrion rubs his hands in glee now. “Lyanna Mormont. Now she’s a lot of fun.” 

“Lyanna Mormont,” Margaery explains now to the camera, “is the youngest contestant ever to participate in the seventy-four years since the Westerosi Song Contest was started. At just eleven years old, this Little Lady of Bear Island is known to pack quite the punch!” 

Every camera is trained on the diminutive figure as she walks on stage, so very grave and so very stern. “This is an ode to all the honourable men in Bear Island, past and present and forever more. Each one of them is ten of every mainlander. This song is to remember the five-thousand-year history of our small and fierce nation. After such a long and cold hard winter, I am always proud to declare that Here We Stand!" 

Margaery raises an eyebrow at Tyrion. “Yikes!” 

“Told you she’s a barrel of laughs,” Tyrion grins. “And wait till you hear what comes out of her mouth next.” 

The hall waits expectantly and then it comes and they’re not disappointed.  

Lyanna Mormont, tiny little thing, has a big operatic voice that rivals Fat Walda herself.  

“Gods!” And Margaery doesn’t even cover her hanging jaw this time. “She’s not even miked!”

“Nope,” Tyrion grins. “I have quite the crush on Lyanna Mormont, I have to admit. If the next contestant isn’t even half as ferocious as this little lady is, they’re fucked.” 

‘They’ turn out to be Ramsay Bolton’s band from the rather dour Dreadfort.  

“Oh my gods, what the hell are they wearing!” 

“I do believe they’re all dressed as… orcs,” Tyrion calmly supplies, squinting at the band on stage. He shakes his head and rolls his eyes. “Totally wrong fanbase for this to work.” 

“What’s the name of their song again?” Margaery asks, wrinkling her forehead in mild disgust. 

“Seven Hells.” 

_Seven Hells_ turns out very loud and very unintelligible. And just the sort of thing that Northerners north of North go absolutely ape over. Death metal is huge there, apparently. All that snow’s probably got something to do with it. 

“Are those the chords of…” 

“Yes,” Tyrion replies. “Yes, I believe so.” 

“They’re playing…” And Margaery leans forward, not quite believing her ears. 

“You’re shitting me. They’re actually growling to—“ 

“ _Who let the dogs out._ Yes. Yes they are.” 

The theatre goes mental after they’re done but the TV viewers aren’t so enamoured. Apparently, black metal really doesn’t translate well on screen. It’s one of those music genres, Tyrion shrugs. Got to be there to get it. 

* * *

It’s almost Jon’s turn and Dany is crushing on him something fierce. Gratifyingly, he seems rather taken by her too.

It goes against everything she stands for and preaches about daily, but just as he’s about to turn and walk on stage, she flings an arm around his neck and kisses him hard. And just because she’s been perving about it for the best half of the week since the semis, her other hand snakes down and finally grabs herself some Jon Snow ass. 

It’s _everything_ she’s dreamed about and more. 

She breaks away from the kiss first. Jon Snow looks dazed and he wanders on stage and promptly forgets his starting note. Dany grins. 

It’s an ‘80s rock ballad and his curls are bouncing adorably under the stage lights. He must condition them or something. They look so healthy.  

“There’s gotta be a key change coming up,” Tyrion predicts now. “It’s not a proper rock ballad without a key change…” 

When Jon Snow finally steps it up a semitone, the crowd has a collective mini-orgasm. 

* * *

Brienne is nervous. And when she’s nervous, she turns twenty shades of blotchy red. She now looks like a mottled peach and wishes desperately she’d taken that TV presenter’s advice and changed her suit into the black and white one she has spare.

That man with the beard who hasn’t stopped staring at her comes over finally. “You alright?”  

She swallows dumbly, not trusting herself to speak.  

“Just wanted to say…” He looks down and actually seems shy now. Brienne’s mouth falls open. She can hardly believe it and her eyes narrow in suspicion. She looks around for hidden cameras and he takes a deep breath. “You-look-absofuckinglutely-fantastic,” it all tumbles out in a rush. “Just thought you should know. You’re going to be great.” 

Oh gods. Oh god. He cannot mean that. Brienne looks utterly appalled even as her heart is flopping wildly inside her like a wet fish out of water. 

Tormund—and yes, she did manage to find out his name earlier—turns now and strides back to his big group of burly, shaggy men and Brienne remembers to breathe again. And then her eyes harden. _No. Impossible. They’re probably making fun of her now._

She looks at her salmon-coloured suit and checks the clock. Five minutes. She runs back to her dressing room. 

* * *

Daenerys comes on stage straight after Jon is done. She starts with a bang and she’s fierce and all _Viva la Feminista_ and there are way too many pyrotechnics going so the stage looks almost like it's on fire. It’s energetic and passionate, at least. Tyrion and Margaery barely make out words about refugees and equality of the sexes and the abolition of child labour and climate change as she bounces around on stage and punches the air. 

“Gawd. Is she rapping now?” Margaery complains. She groans louder when it morphs into a monologue. “I hate spoken lyrics!” she seethes off-camera. “It’s making my hair stand! Stop it! Aaaaaarrrrgggghhhh!”  

“Can’t hear you,” Tyrion replies drolly, and grins his head off.  

The special effects are just insane now. There are 26 giant sparklers going off every two seconds. It’s dazzling and loud and there are komodo dragons, and at some point she does a costume change on stage and suddenly looks very, very naked. 

The staging is impressive and looks expensive, Margaery will grant her that. But they're both still unsure what her performance was really all about.  

Jon Snow, meanwhile and just quietly, is hugely turned on. 

* * *

Brienne of Tarth is really nervous now, as she stares from stage left at the lavish spectacle before her. How the hell is she going to top _that_ , she wonders. Daenerys’s stage presence is electric, the effects dazzling, the production values through the roof. Goodness. The pyrotechnics alone would have blown a sizeable hole in Tarth's GDP.

She groans to herself. The contrast! Diminutive, firecracker Dany is going to walk off stage the queen of everything, and big bumbling Brienne is going to walk on stage and be an absolute downer… 

She takes a deep breath and lets it all out. She should be used to people laughing at her after all. Why not the whole world. 

Brienne almost yells when Tormund speaks up suddenly from behind her. 

“I like your suit,” he rumbles underneath the deep red beard. “You look neat.” 

“Thank you,” Brienne manages to blurt out in return and almost follows up the sentiment with a smile. This time, when she turns beet red, it doesn’t clash with her clothes because you just can’t go wrong with classic colours. That pretty TV presenter had been right.  

“Is that a man?” Tyrion squints now as Brienne strides across the stage. Her flaxen hair is short and parted to the side and she has to toss her head back every now and then as a stubborn lock of hair falls in front of her big blue eyes. The black and white tuxedo jacket accentuates her unusually broad shoulders, but in an uncharacteristic moment of spontaneity, Brienne decides just before she steps on stage to undo three buttons of her shirt so it gapes in a deep vee that still remains modest (thank the gods for a flat chest, she supposes) while now also dissonantly making her appear... feminine. 

She’s a tall, strapping woman with a difficult face and she strides now to the centre of the stage which has nothing else on it except a small stack of wooden crates. She sits on a tall stack now, her right leg down on the floor, her left leg hitched up and resting on a rung in the box before her, exposing her black and white covered dress shoes. 

She is miked but that is all. There’s no band behind her, no dancers before her and the theatre senses something different is a-coming when it falls into a deep and lonely hush. 

And then Brienne of Tarth starts to sing. 

“My gods…” Margaery whispers eventually. “She’s beautiful!” 

“Shhh!” Tyrion shushes immediately, not wanting to miss a thing. Because, as it turns out, Brienne can _sing._

There is no soundtrack, no instruments. No one and nothing accompanies her, which just makes the song all the more poignant as she sings about the solitary life that fits no one and nowhere and yet constantly craves something better and _more._

It’s one lone voice in front of 200 million viewers exposed and brave and scrutinised. She is pitch-perfect and even when her voice wavers, it’s only with feeling. For all her coarse mannerisms… for all she’s covered, top-to-toe in a man’s suit, Brienne of Tarth is more naked and woman than any other contestant before her. And her voice! Such sweetness, so discordant with the way she looks. And so utterly mournful that Tyrion is appalled when a tear starts seeping from the corner of his own eye. 

_That constant craving  
_ _Has always been_

_That constant craving  
_ _Has always been…_

 

There’s a stunned silence when her solo is finished and she bows her head. And then it happens. The applause. But not just that, the stomping too. And the shrill whistling. And the theatre erupts now into pandemonium. Brienne looks up, completely startled, a dull red creeping up her neck again like a rash. But no one cares.  

Brienne of Tarth gets the first all-theatre standing ovation of the night.   

* * *

Sansa is up next, and the nerves drop away one by one as she stands and remembers to breathe.

Petyr isn’t worried. He just got off the phone. Fifty percent of the vote is from a panel of judges whose identities are supposed to be secret, but Petyr guesses about half of them without even really trying. It’s the second half of the voting system that has been doing his head in but by golly, he’s finally cracked it, he thinks. 

Thank goodness for VOIP phones, Petyr grins. IP addresses are so much more malleable than the traditional telco stations. Voters aren’t allowed to vote for their own region and the organisers screen all that using a suite of factors—including the origin of the call. But invariably, lots of viewers will try to vote their own region because people are stubborn and stupid. 

So what would happen if, say, Petyr were to find a guy who knew how to mask IP addresses _en masse_ so they look like they’re coming from another region… hypothetically, of course.  

“You worried, Sweetling?” he croons to her now. 

“A little,” she smiles. Her legs are stockinged and he cannot wait to slide his hands down the side of them.  

“You wouldn’t be human if you weren’t a little worried, my darling,” he whispers and then can’t help himself when he adds, “although I wouldn’t be worried if I were you…” 

Sansa whips her head around to face her manager then. There’s something about the way he says it, something in his voice. He is too sure. Too cocky… more smug than he normally is.  

“Have you done something, Petyr?” she warns now. “Is everything above board? None of your tricks, I hope?” 

He laughs a throaty laugh. “You don’t worry about a thing.” 

And so of course she does, just as she steps on stage. 

Brienne exits stage left instead of right, and she collides into Sansa as she does. 

“Sorry!” Brienne yelps, feeling even more mortified when she realises who it is that she’s just crashed into. Sansa is famous and right now, she looks sensational and smells like heaven. Like a real star would instead of the pretender that she is. 

“You were wonderful!” And Sansa hugs the larger woman, shocking her so she doesn’t remember to hug back. “Congratulations! You should be so, so proud! I had goose pimples, you were so good!” 

And Brienne searches the starlet’s eyes for something telling. A hint of malice, maybe. A scornful laugh that is about to break. But no, nothing. Just genuine friendliness and even admiration. 

Brienne watches as Sansa emerges to wild applause that starts even before she gets to open her mouth. _And that,_ says Brienne to herself, _is what it means to be a true class act._

* * *

And she is—a true class act. And sexy as all hell. 

Sansa is both coquette and ingénue, her legs going on forever. She has a voice that is soul and sex and sweetness combined with a husk and bedroom eyes that twitches many a cock in the room and far, far beyond.  

She sings a sensual jazz number tonight, the first to do that genre in a number of years. It’s perfect for showing off her range. She goes from deep seduction to peak perfection with an effortless slide of vocals.  

And then she gets to the bridge of the song and that’s when she lets rip and starts getting technical, dancing lithely up and down her startling vocal range like a maestro and a boss.  

Right before she leaps onto a pole that had been stealthily making its way down to the stage from the theatre ceiling. She catches the pole with an athleticism and grace that elicits a gasp around the room. 

And then she tops it off by holding a sweet high note before climbing halfway up the pole and twirling one long stockinged leg around it before dramatically arching her back so she’s _singing the damn note upside down._

“Good gods!” Tyrion blurts out. He’s in love now. The whole room is.  

Sansa Stark gets the second standing ovation for the night and Brienne feels like she just got completely and utterly owned and upstaged.  

Tormund sidles—if the huge man is capable of sidling—right behind her then and gives her shoulder a reassuring squeeze. She likes that he’s a bit of a giant himself. She doesn’t feel so bulky for once. Compared to him, she’s almost dainty. 

“You up next?” she manages to ask this time without looking like a tomato.  

“Yep,” he grins. “And I’m a-gonna ask your number when I step off-stage. First thing.” He grins now. “Right after I smash this competition.” 

Sansa lasts about twenty paces before she’s yanked into a corridor. She giggles. Petyr crowds her into the nearest closet he had been eyeing for a time and especially cleared out for this. He’s going to maul her and maul her _good_. Showtime is over. He can mess her make-up now. He growls. 

* * *

Tormund and the Wildlings don’t dance a whit, which is disappointing to all the women in the room. But boy, can they sing.

They stand in an arrow formation for much of the song. Vaguely Celtic Folk by inspiration, the vibe of the vast room is practically electric as they start out in unison before splitting off into seven-part harmony. Their heavy stomps rock the stage, their long hair flowing and flying majestically as they sing of a cold hard winter. 

“They’ve turned the blower on!” squeals Margaery now. “Gods I _adore_ their hair. It’s like a bloody shampoo commercial for cavemen! I LOVE IT!” 

When the smoke machine turns on to the thundering refrain of misty mountains, Margaery and Tyrion sigh happily. 

“Soooooo cheesy,” Tyrion swoons. “Sooooooo gooooood…” 

The theatre is starting to clap along now, punctuating the stomping of their boots. It’s a deliberate drumbeat that is slowly but surely building to something quite satisfying. 

It’s a bloody catchy song. Even Varys is humming in their ears. 

“Ahhh…” Tyrion grins and rubs his thighs. “Key change! I feel it. A key change coming up! They just gotta have a key change at the climax, surely. Otherwise, it’s just a bunch of hairy blokes stomping on a stage.” 

Sure enough, the key change happens and Brienne clutches the curtain in front of her and feels the very first stirrings of a swoon.  

* * *

The final act of the evening is always, always Lannisport—the last of the Big Three to perform for the Grand Final. It is tradition. No one can quite remember why.

There’s a big commercial break as the rest of the contestants spill out into the theatre to join the audience and become one with them. 

Margaery and Tyrion hurry backstage. Tywin Lannister, it is renowned, does not abide tardiness. 

“How does it feel to be the last contestant of the Contest?” Tyrion starts off and Tywin glares down at him in reply. 

“It feels fine.” 

_Cripes, that baritone,_ thinks Margaery to herself. _So sinister and intimidating as fuck. Also, side point. He’s very, very tall. And very, very old. And he kinda smells nice._

“You performed in the Contest many, many years ago,” Margaery swoops in now, emphasising the ' _many, many'_ out of loyalty to Tyrion, the poor darling. “What brings you back?” 

“Indeed,” Tywin answers now, his green eyes flicking over her form with an insouciance that borders on inappropriate. Margaery tries and fails not to like it. “Good question,” he approves and Margaery shoots Tyrion an apologetic look for making him look like a dill more than ever. 

“I suppose, this being the Contest that Lannisport has supported for over seventy years, that I just wanted to give back. I’m retiring this year from the Board. This will be my swan song.” 

“Your swan song?” Margaery hears herself say. “You sound like you’re preparing for death and not retirement, Mr Lannister! Surely you’re not so old?” 

_Flirting. Flirting with the grandpa of the Westerosi Song Contest. Honestly, Marge._

A flicker of something crosses the old man’s lips but his eyes remain arrogant when he bites out, sounding almost bored, “I have more pressing matters to attend to, Miss…” 

“Tyrell,” she replies helpfully. 

"I feel almost superfluous here,” Tyrion starts to complain. 

“You are,” Tywin Lannister agrees.  

Looking first at Margaery and then back at Tywin and again at Margaery, Tyrion finally shrugs and saunters off. He’ll get properly sloshed now. They’re less than half an hour away from the finish line, after all. Close enough is good enough for him. 

“So…” Margaery continues, taking a teeny tiny step forward. Gods he _does_ smell nice. A mix of old spice and something infinitely more expensive. “Big Band Swing, huh? That’s quite a genre. Takes a big voice, a big personality…” 

_Fucking stop flirting!_ her brain screams. 

_I can’t!_ something else plaintively replies. It might have been her cunt.  

“I hear you were in the army for a long time,” she adds suddenly, taking a different tack. “Quite the change, going from something so formal and disciplined to… well… _this._ ” 

Another quirk of his lips, and this time Margaery knows that Tywin Lannister is mildly amused. 

“I am a man of many talents, Miss Tyrell,” he purrs like a large and dangerous cat. She shudders a little. He leans forward and he’s tall, _so_ tall and gawds, he’s fit and so fiiiiiiine… 

His words brush her ear and she swears they each make their way down to her panties and pool there. “I hope you’ll be watching later, Miss Tyrell.” He smiles then and manages to look fucking scary and sexy all at once.  

"It’s a send-off not to be missed.” 

* * *

Margaery is bouncing in her seat when the music starts to play. Tywin is on stage. All alone, except he sucks the room in. _My gods, he’s got a huge presence._

Tyrion rolls his eyes.  

The trumpets sound and then Tywin turns around sharply. When he opens his mouth, that gorgeous baritone takes over the room and Margaery has to grip her seat. She crosses her legs demurely. She’s grinning so hard, it’s embarrassing and Varys is muttering into her earpiece about toning it down. 

He’s wearing a suit with an old top hat that’s perfect for the era of the piece. The brass band is playing and he’s soon joined on stage with a bevy of writhing, dancing women. He’s surprisingly light on his feet as he joins them, stepping in time to tap dance along. Margaery is this close to swooning now. A man who can sing  _and_ dance? And look and sound like that? 

And then it gets weird. 

It starts to happen before anyone knows what the hell is going on. There’s just so much to look at on stage. The bright lights, the costumes, each of the musicians coming on stage and dancing along… So when Tywin Lannister starts losing his kit, it takes a moment for the What The Fuck to sink in before the screaming begins. 

He starts with the jacket, shrugging it off and tossing it to the front row. Must be getting comfortable, everyone thinks. It’s hot on stage and maybe they’re about to hit a key change and ramp up the tempo. 

He yanks on his bow tie and tosses that too. 

When his shirt comes off and there’s no undershirt beneath, there’s a ripple of something through the audience as they start to switch gears. 

But then Tywin reaches down and in one magnificent manoeuvre, his pants are off, velcroed as they had been on the sides. 

Margaery’s jaw drops. Varys screams. And Tyrion throws his big boofy head back and roars with laughter until tears spring to his eyes. 

Tywin turns his back to the audience and starts to gyrate his hips slowly. The theatre is shouting now, a slow clap to Take It Off. Varys is sobbing in the background. He can’t cut to commercial. He can’t do anything. Tywin is a bloody sponsor. And no amount of slamming on the dump button is going to erase this from the Show’s history. Even as they clap, thousands of MyTubers recording the show are already frantically splicing this segment and posting online while giving painfully detailed blow by blows of what exactly Tywin Lannister is doing. 

When he finally rips the tiny red G-string off, there’s a collective gasp before he turns around slowly, a shit-eating smirk on his face. Margaery’s mouth goes dry and she blurts out her visceral reaction loud and clear on international TV, giving voice to millions and squillions of women everywhere when she shouts, 

“FUCK ME, HE’S _HUGE!_ ” 

Cut to commercial. 

* * *

They’re both settling down to earth when they realise that there’s an awful lot cheering and screaming coming from the stage. 

Petyr has to think about it. He is completely and utterly depleted. It’s been a while since he’s tried going for a third round. It’s the euphoria, he tells himself. Adrenaline rush kicking in after that superb performance by his little songbird.  

Sansa turns and snuggles into him right then. There’s one huge perk of missing what sounds like a rather exciting final performance, Petyr smirks. No one around to hear Sansa howling the dressing room down.  

She tilts her head up and slides her tongue across his lower lip before he dips his head to meet hers and drink her in.  

“Well, I’ve had my fill,” she sighs happily, patting her pussy. “That will do me for a day at least.” 

“Greedy little minx,” he smiles indulgently. And then they both sigh loudly as they stand and regroup, hunting around her dressing room for articles of clothing they had shed and shredded earlier in their haste. It’s time they resurfaced anyway, thinks Petyr. Voting should be starting soon. 

“You’re looking very pleased with yourself,” Sansa observes. 

“I am,” replies Petyr. “I'm standing before the most beautiful girl in the world who is about to win the Westerosi Song Contest for Winterfell.” 

“Don’t say that,” Sansa flushes. “It’s bad luck.” 

“Only if you don’t make your own luck, sweetie.” 

It’s a saying she’s heard from him countless of times but something in the way he says it tonight suddenly gives her pause. 

“Petyr…” She looks at him and then grows slightly alarmed when he flicks a look at her and turns away. She knows exactly what that means, and only too well. 

“You’ve done something!” she exclaims, and pulls him so he’s turned to face her now. “Tell me what you did, Petyr Baelish!” 

“Sansa…” 

“You rigged something, didn’t you!” 

“Sweetling, you’ll win tonight fair and square. I know it. I just… like to be prepared. You know what I’m like!” 

Of course she does. She punches his arm and he whimpers. 

“That fucking hurts, darling!” 

“Good,” she snaps. “I cannot _believe_ you’ve pulled something like this again, Petyr! And of all nights too. You know how much this means to me! To my family!” 

“Exactly!” he cries, running his hand through his hair. “Why else did you think I went through all that trouble!” 

“What did you do!” And when he starts to look away, she yanks his goatee angrily. “Tell me, you aggravating man! Or I swear to the old gods I’m walking into that studio where Margaery and Tyrion are, and announcing to everyone on international TV—” 

“Don’t,” he sighs wearily. “Alright. Alright…” 

When he tells her almost everything (he skips the bit about the VOIP phones because she looks about ready to kill him now), Sansa sweeps from the room and heads straight to the Show Director’s office. 

Petyr sighs. Starks and their bull-headed nobility. Fucking nuisance sometimes. 

* * *

“How many votes are we talking about?” Varys pales. They’re five minutes before voting begins. The train has practically left the station.

Thank fuck for Tywin, bitches Varys to himself. That buys everyone some time at least while the audience gets over _that_ debacle. 

“I don’t know,” Sansa replies truthfully. “But enough to compromise every vote I would think. That voting exchange website has been up live for a whole year now.” 

Varys rubs his bald head before he pinches his lower lip. Petyr isn’t in the office with her, but he can’t help but wonder if that sneaky, slippery bastard manager of hers has anything to do with this. 

“And you say your sister only found out about this now?” And Sansa nods so emphatically, her head might snap. 

Varys stifles a groan. It’s just bad luck, he supposes, that Sansa's such a creep magnet. If they ever find out the identity of this crazy stalker Sansa-fan that was mad enough to devise such a scheme… 

But first, the votes. “Let’s let the voting continue as per normal. Let’s not alarm anyone.”  

And Sansa nods, liking this plan already. 

Varys looks around the room. “Every regional TV station does their own little poll, don’t they.” And the nods around the room confirm his suspicions. 

“Get their results. I don’t care how. They’ll all vote for their own contestant as the top, of course. They’ll just cancel each other out. But as for the rest, let’s get their local polling data in and crunch some numbers.” Varys glares around the room at the shocked-stupid faces. 

“ _Now_ , my little birds. Sometime this year would be nice,” he drawls sarcastically. And Varys’s little birds, they do indeed fly. 

“I want to recuse myself.” 

_Tempting,_ Varys thinks. But Sansa is a powerhouse and really, he doesn’t need more negative PR after Tywin tonight.  

“Don’t worry, darling” Varys soothes young and earnest Sansa. “We know exactly what to do.” 

* * *

There’s a tremendous cheer when Margaery and Tyrion walk on stage. The atmosphere is electric. Everyone is buzzed from nerves, alcohol, and goodness knows what else. 

“We’re almost at the close of the 2018 Westerosi Song Contest,” Margaery smiles sweetly into Camera One. 

“It’s been an exciting year, brimming with talent… and variety…” There’s a snicker across the room as everyone mentally conjures the image of Tywin’s ass right before he revealed his schlong. 

Talk about a memorable fuck-you to the Board. 

“The results are in and we are now ready to announce our winners for the Westerosi Song Contest!” 

One of Dany’s hands is gripped tight on the three-way leash for her dragons. Everyone gives them a wide berth and dirty looks. Everyone, that is, except Jon Snow who grips her other hand right now, lacing his fingers with hers in an act of solidarity. From their grins, it’s rather obvious that they each already feel like a winner. 

Tormund comes up behind Brienne and wisely doesn’t touch her. She pretends to ignore him, even as the roar in her ear from the blood coursing back up her neck tells everything the wild man needs to know. He grins. 

Petyr slips a hand on the small of Sansa’s back. “Forgive me?” he whispers. 

“Not yet,” she grimaces, but she relents almost immediately. “I will, eventually. I always do. But you’re fucking sleeping on the couch.” 

Stannis and Davos stand off to the side, looking at the younger contestants and feeling suddenly older and wiser. They know they’re not going to win, not with this much younger talent in the room. But just to be able to work together after all these years gives both men immeasurable pleasure.  

Stannis sighs privately. He knows it’s him. He’s fine when it’s just with Davos but as soon as there’s a crowd, let alone 200 million viewers… He’s either got to get rip-roaring drunk or turn into No Fun Stannis. He rubs Davos’s back once, twice, before clasping his arms behind his own back. He’ll make it up to Davey somehow. Later, maybe. They both need a holiday. 

Renly is pumped. But then again, he didn’t get a standing ovation. He flicks a look at Loras. Okay. Maybe just one standing ovation. Twice.  

Why do they always take forever to announce these things! 

“In fourteenth place… it’s King’s Landing!” 

No surprises there. Joffrey howls but he’s the only one to do so and no one else seems to give a flying fuck, and Margaery’s already reading the next name anyway. 

“In thirteenth place, we have… Sandor Clegane, from the Westerlands!”  

Sandor shrugs. It’s the Westerosi Song Contest, for crying out loud. He can sing, but he sure as hell can’t dance or hide his face in make-up, or climb a pole. He’s got a sizeable junk, though. All that height. He thought about Tywin's stunt... Now _there’s_ a thought. 

“In twelfth place—the Two Tenors from Dragonstone!”  

Stannis and Davos nod politely at the camera, before Davos leans over and plants a chaste one on Stannis’s cheek. The internet collectively goes _awwwww_. 

“In eleventh place—Bear Island!” 

Lyanna Mormont had apparently gone home as it’s past her bedtime and she is nothing if not a disciplined young lady who knows the importance of a good night’s sleep. 

“In tenth place—the Boltons with their song, Seven Hells!” 

Well, this is quite a surprise, actually. But the North do like their metal. And the Orc theme seemed to charm rather more than alarm home viewers. Whodathunk. 

“In ninth place—it’s Danaerys Targaryen from Meereen!” 

Awww shucks. It’s hard to hide her disappointment really. The camera pans to her frozen smile and Jon squeezes her hand sympathetically. He’s gotta find a way to make up for that disappointment somehow. She breaks her grip on his hand and the next thing he feels is her hand on his ass again. Obviously, she’s thought things through. 

There’s a roar when the eighth place is called for the Dothraki. It’s a triumph considering the slim odds they had to begin with. They break out into a spontaneous War Cry for the hell of it, and Margaery and Tyrion wait it out patiently until they’re done. 

Seventh, sixth and fifth go to Renly Baratheon, Jon Snow and Oberyn Martell respectively. There’s a mix of reactions. Jon takes it on the chin. Renly is Not Happy, and Oberyn Martell can’t give a fuck because he’s high as a kite and buried in women at a table in the back of the theatre.  

“Fourth place goes to…” And Margaery’s insides flutter when she reads the name out loud. “Tywin Lannister, Lannisport.” 

But Tywin isn’t there. The cameras scour the room for him but Tywin has left the building. A send-off to remember indeed. Margaery’s annoyed in all honesty and gives a little huff. That is, until her phone buzzes right about now and she peeks at the message from under the desk. 

_ Missed me, did you? TL  _

Margaery crosses her legs once more and looks directly into the camera before she sticks her tongue slowly into the side of her mouth. Utterly, utterly shameless now. 

It’s getting serious now. Sansa looks pensive, but Brienne is so shocked to have gotten so far, she doesn’t feel a large, warm hand slide up to rest on the small of her back. Tormund smiles. 

“Third place goes to… the Wildlings!” 

And Brienne turns now to congratulate Tormund, unsure exactly how to do so without inevitably pointing out that she’s probably second and ahead of him. But before she can carefully construct her response, he pulls her into his arms, tilts her head determinedly, and kisses her vigorously and thoroughly. 

The camera pans to them just at that moment and Twitter explodes.  

“Congratulations, baby!” Tormund grins. “You’re going to win this. You watch!” 

There’s a lull now as a hush falls over the room. Sansa looks down at her feet, wholly and utterly conflicted. What if it all goes to poo and she’s named first after all? She will never be able to live with the knowledge that she probably got there on a scammed vote. 

But can she take being second? 

“The second place goes to…” Tyrion’s dulcet voice carries through the speakers and calms Sansa down. She knows right before he calls her name. 

“Sansa Stark.” 

There’s an audible gulp as Brienne swallows. Her eyes are bulging now—more than they usually do, and Tormund is kissing her again. 

Sansa reaches over and hugs Brienne by the waist tight. “Congratulations, honey,” she whispers genuinely. “You really, really deserve this!” And Sansa finds she means it. Of course she does. 

Brienne is pulled from her dark little corner, multiple hands escorting her to the front of the stage as the camera fights to get a good look at the woman who defied the betting odds across Westeros and conquered a talent competition. 

“You have to perform your song again,” someone hisses at Brienne as a reminder. She nods rather numbly.  

There’s the trophy and the talky-talky bit that Margaery and Tyrion hold on stage. Brienne remembers none of it. But then it’s time for her to sing once more and the theatre falls into a reverent hush as she stands there and wills her voice not to tremble. 

She starts to sing and everyone settles back into their seats, soaking in the purity and power of her words and voice. 

_That constant craving  
_ _Has always been_

_That constant craving  
_ _Has always been…_

But wait—there’s more! For Tormund has gotten hold of a violin and he’s walking onto the stage right now, the sweet strain of harmony dovetailing perfectly with Brienne’s melancholic words. Together they really do make beautiful music. The theatre goes wild. Two-hundred million TV viewers go wild. And Margaery’s wiping away real tears.

“I fucking love this contest!” she sighs happily. 

**Author's Note:**

> Oh gawds, this fic. 
> 
> This is my first real attempt at writing a multiple pairing and I apologise if I've mangled your favourite characters. I truly mean no harm. And please, if you can spare a moment, I'd love to hear from you.
> 
> P.S: I was channelling [KD Lang](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oXqPjx94YMg) for Brienne when I wrote her bits, just in case you were wondering. Got nostalgic the other day and watched it again. Isn't it funny how the darndest things become muses for a time?


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